


So We Meet Again For the First Time

by epeeblade



Series: Time Travelin' Clint [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Humor, M/M, Time Travel, Trope Bingo Round 2, recruiting Clint fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeeblade/pseuds/epeeblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Clint leaves him in 1979, Phil Coulson never stops looking for him. (Sequel to Back to Phil's Future)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1979

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Back to Phil's Future](https://archiveofourown.org/works/909846) by [epeeblade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeeblade/pseuds/epeeblade). 



> For the square on my Trope Bingo card First Time/Last Time.
> 
> Thanks to Lapillus for the beta!
> 
> Sequel to Back to Phil's Future (I'll add it to the series in a sec) because some people wanted Phil's POV.

1979

Phil knew something was weird about the strangers in the gym. He only caught a glimpse of one of them, dressed in something that looked like a mix of a military uniform and something out of Star Wars. They disappeared through the door back into the school, as if chased away by the beat of the music. 

"Do you want to get some punch? I heard that Daisy spiked it." Carrie said in his ear, loud enough to be heard over the disco beat.

Phil didn't really, but it would give him an opportunity to see what the strangers were up to. "Sure. I'll be right back." He detangled himself from her arm, and managed to lose himself in the crowd before slipping out the back door.

The hallway was too quiet. He should have least heard the footsteps of the strangers. There weren't even any other students hanging out here. 

Music flared briefly as the door was pushed open again. "Phil, where are you going? You promised me punch!" Carrie grabbed his arm.

He winced. Phil was not a very good date. He only asked Carrie to the prom because that's what you did. She was nice enough, but he'd really much rather be home sorting through his Captain America comics and catalogs, looking for vintage cards.

"I know, I will, I mean. Did you see those squares in the gym? They don't belong here." Maybe she'd seen the same thing. Phil still couldn't shake the oddness of the strangers.

"So tell Mrs. Holly. She'd be more than happy to throw them out. Come on, we're missing Night Fever." 

Oh no. She was going to want to dance. Phil shuddered at the thought. He just couldn't get the disco moves right. It was like his feet were welded to the floor. 

So it was almost a relief when the strangers jumped out of the classroom next to them. Phil saw the guns, and pushed Carrie behind him. Well, at least he wouldn't have to boogie down.

"Philip Coulson. You are coming with us."

How did they know his name? Phil held his hands up, trying to look non-threatening.

"Not on my watch, kids." 

The voice came from further down the hallway, caressing Phil's ears. This new stranger flipped down the corridor, moving so fast it was hard to see. Before he landed, both of the strangers accosting Phil had tumbled to the ground, each of them with an arrow sticking out of their chests.

Phil got his first good look at his rescuer: strongly muscled arms, serious brow, bright blue-green eyes and a plump mouth that curved into a grin. He was dressed in all black, covered from head to toe in buckles and pouches that seemed to house weapons. "Come with me if you want to live." The guy held out his hand.

Phil got hard so fast he felt dizzy. 

Carrie let out a little moan and then slipped to the ground. Phil dropped to his knees to check on her. In a way he was glad for the distraction. It gave him time to get himself under control. 

"Did she seriously just faint?" The stranger asked. He touched each of the bodies, and they disappeared in a weird effect of sparkling light.

Phil hadn't had any of the punch, he was pretty sure, else he'd start wondering if they'd spiked it with LSD too. "Who are you?"

The stranger had to be the source of all this insanity. There was something about him. That was the only explanation for Phil's sudden physical reaction. He'd never found another man attractive before.

But maybe that was because he'd never met a man like this before.

The stranger forced open a door. "Call me Clint. Come on, let's get her in here."

"What?" For some reason, Phil found himself helping Clint drag Carrie's unconscious body into the classroom. 

Clint grunted as he put her down behind the teacher's desk. "We have to move."

Move where? "What about Carrie?" They couldn't just leave her here.

"Your prom date's name is Carrie?" Clint snickered. Phil glared at him. This was no time to be making jokes. His date had fainted because Phil had been attacked. "She'll be safe here. It's not her they want. C'mon, kid. Let's get to high ground."

The softness in Clint's voice got under Phil's skin. He followed Clint out into the hallway, still trying to piece together why he was a target. There was only one explanation. Dad. His father was a Colonel in the Army, and he never talked about his current placement. Mama always said it was best not to discuss it, which only led Phil to further fantasies of top secret projects in underground hangers.

Clint led them to a stairwell. "Up."

"You still haven't explained who you are or who they are. And why they want me. Does this have something to do with my dad?" Phil whispered his suspicions. 

Clint turned back, his eyes serious. "Remember issue 326 of Captain America?"

"Which run?" Phil responded automatically, his mind flipping through the possibilities. 

"Second volume, came out in the sixties." 

That wasn't one of his particular favorites. Phil enjoyed the early runs, shortly after World War II. He felt those were the most faithful to the real Captain America. Still, he was familiar with the issue. "The one where Cap travels to the future to help American soldiers in Vietnam?"

After the words left his lips, Phil realized what Clint was trying to say. He didn't even understand Clint's ramble about Captain American not being available. Clint was talking about time travel. 

Clearly Clint was insane.

"Okay," Phil said slowly. "You know, there's a payphone down the hall. I'm just going to go call my dad and…"

Clint grasped Phi's arm. His fingers were warm, even through the layers of polyester. They were so close together Phil could feel Clint's breath on his face. "Look, kid, this isn't a game. I am from the future. I know you, Philip James Coulson. I knew that you'd get the Captain America reference. I also know that your grandfather gave you your first trading card – and that you bought the Captain Rogers doll yourself and keep it under your bed."

"It's an action figure." Phil protested, even as his mind was whirling at the possibilities. He still couldn't focus on anything but his nearness to Clint, and how the other man smelled of leather and oil. He took a deep breath. "Okay, so let's say I believe you're from the future. How do I know I can trust you?"

"What, you're thinking I'm only pretending to be your friend to trick you? Not a bad plan, actually." Clint winked at him. Phil felt arousal curl in his belly. Apparently he had a thing for bad boys. Who knew? "But the Phil Coulson I know has great instincts. What does your gut tell you, kid?"

Clint didn't want to know what was going on in Phil's head. He swallowed down the attraction, knowing that his decision could cost him his life. It was more than just Clint being hot. Phil did trust him. He pulled out of Clint's grasp and tried to act confident. "My gut says stop calling me 'kid.' And we can get to the roof via the locker rooms in the gym. Follow me."

For once, Phil was going to have an adventure of his very own.

***

Clint stuck around for a week after saving Phil's life. He insisted on staying at a no-name motel on the edge of town, and Phil was secretly grateful. Otherwise he'd have to explain Clint's existence to his parents and his mother was already disappointed in him for breaking up with Carrie.

Apparently Carrie hadn't liked waking up alone in their history classroom.

Clint had pulled a roll of money out of one of his pockets and gestured with it. "Remember this. You're the one who gave it to me before you sent me back here. I think you'd been hoarding pre-1979 money and keeping it on you. Which means you knew I'd need it. Wow, time travel makes my head hurt."

Phil had to agree. 

That was the only time Clint made explicit reference to the future. He flat out refused to answer Phil's questions. But Phil found if he engaged Clint in conversation about something, he usually let something slip.

Phil made a note to purchase stock in a brand new company called Apple Computer for just that reason.

He shyly asked Clint to come with him that weekend to a convention in the city. Phil had been planning to go for a while, but it would be more fun with someone who seemed to understand his Captain America obsession. Clint's eyes got soft in that way that made Phil melt when he said yes.

Having Clint with him at the convention was far out. Clint had comments on everything, and one time he muttered "Steve would never say that," while they were looking through some old comics.

Phil had laughed. "You sound like you know him."

Clint had gone very pale, and had excused himself to use the restroom. Phil had pondered while he continued to sort through the stash. There was no way Clint could know Captain America. Steve Rogers had died in the forties. But maybe this wasn't the first time Clint had traveled in time. In the future this kind of thing must be commonplace.

And since Clint knew Phil that meant Phil would one day get to see this bold new future. Maybe he might even meet Captain America himself.

"Ready to go?" Clint had returned, and they finished up with the dealer's room, Phil wishing he had enough money to afford that complete set of vintage Captain America trading cards. He consoled himself with being able to buy one of the cards he'd had his eye on for quite some time.

The rest of the week went by in a blur, until Clint finally announced he needed to return home.

"Can't you give me a hint? When will I see you again?" Phil could hear the whine in his own voice and blushed. He'd managed to hide his crush this long.

Clint finished lacing up his boots – and Phil never got tired of watching those hands work, the supple way Clint's fingers plucked the strings – and sat back on the motel bed. "Phil. I've screwed up enough telling you as much as I have. I only hope I haven't fucked up the future that much."

Phil risked putting his hand on Clint's ankle. He could feel the warmth even through the leather and soaked it in, trying to remember everything about Clint, from the mole above his eyebrow, his sideways grin, to the way he smelled. "You haven't. I’m just going to be looking over my shoulder for you everywhere, you know?"

Clint's responded by ruffling Phil's hair. Phil ducked his head as if he hated it, but he cherished every little physical show of affection Clint parceled out. "I'm counting on it, kid."

Phil didn't know what to say to that. He stood when Clint did, and held out his hand. Clint bypassed it and gave him a hug, squeezing him around the middle. For a moment Phil was surrounded by Clint's warmth, breathing in his pure scent. He felt dizzy.

Then Clint stepped back. "Bye, kid. Or maybe I should say see you in the future!" He slapped one of those tiny devices on his chest, and disappeared. 

When Phil brought himself off later that night, one hand curled around his cock, the other clutching the blue and white bedsheets, the name he tried to bite back as he came was Clint's.


	2. 1990

1990

The memo in his mailbox had said to show up at Fury's office at three. Phil had frowned at it. How could Nick have known Phil would be back on base today? It was dated a few days ago, and Phil hadn't even known he was going to be back on time.

He chalked it up to Nick's uncanny sixth sense. Fury's intuition had gotten them out of some tough jams in the Army, and he'd been wise enough to approach Phil when Phil's first tour of duty had been up to get him to join SHIELD.

That had been four years ago. Phil was starting to get that itch between his shoulder blades, the same feeling he had when he was facing the choice whether or not to re-up with the Army. He didn't want to leave SHIELD. Phil liked his job, and he was damn good at it. But something had to give and soon.

He knocked on Fury's door.

"Come in, Cheese."

Phil rolled his eyes as he entered and didn't give the nickname the dignity of a response. "You are not getting me into recruiting." Even if he wanted a change, Phil didn't want it to be behind a desk. He was still good for field work and that's where he needed to be.

"Every new agent needs to do a rotation in recruitment during their first five years. You've been dodging yours." Nick leaned back and stretched. "But I think I got something you might like to sink your teeth into."

Phil closed the door with a click. "Oh?" 

"You've been bitching about the lack of a decent sniper. I got a nibble on a guy that might match your, ah, shall we say unique field style?"

"You mean someone who won't balk when I stop playing by the rule book?" Phil sank into the seat across Nick's desk and stared at the manila folder, itching to see its contents.

Fury laughed. "Something like that. Here, take a look."

Phil snatched up the file. He was usually pretty systematic when he reviewed personnel, always starting from the first page and scrutinizing each piece. This time when he opened the folder, it fell open to the skill set section, which made sense, if Nick had just been reviewing it. "World's Greatest Marksman, huh?"

"Funny thing is, it just might be true."

His eyebrows rose the further he read. This guy wasn't just good he was damn good. Phil frowned at the most recent update. "Sounds like he's run afoul of the Russian mob."

"Which is why we have to decide fast if we want him or not."

Phil finally flipped to the front of the file and promptly forgot to breathe.

It was Clint. His Clint. Phil found himself staring at a blurry snapshot of a face he hadn't forgotten in twelve years. Only…Clint looked so young here. Still, it was the image Phil had burned in his memory. He read the background info and his frown deepened into a scowl. His Clint hadn't had an easy life. 

He closed the file abruptly. These were things he should be learning from Clint, not reading in a file. Of course, Nick could never know what had happened in the past. That was the point. "I want him."

"Thought you might say that." Nick pushed another file across his desk. "This is his current location. Go get him before the mob does."

***

Phil planned ops all the time. It was his thing. The other agents nicknamed him the planner right out of training, and he liked that a hell of a lot better than Cheese, which was why Nick insisted on still calling him that. Though he'd told Phil on more than one occasion that the planning thing was what was going to get him promoted.

Level 5 after only four years? Phil figured Nick to be right.

But right now his brain couldn't seem to hold any plans worth making. Phil needed it to get with the program because he was currently in an unmarked van heading for New York. 

He wasn't a seventeen year old kid anymore. This time he was the older man and seeing Clint again…

Clint wouldn't even know who he was. Phil sucked in a breath at that thought. He'd been harboring so much anticipation at the thought of seeing Clint again that he'd forgotten that one simple fact. They would be meeting for the first time. Fuck.

He swallowed down his nervousness, opened up the file in front of him, and started to plan. This was just another job. Phil would deal with his emotions later. Much later.

***

Of course all of Phil's plans had proved pointless when they arrived at Clint's apartment to find it empty. From the state of the fridge it looked like it had been empty for some time. Its contents were pretty sparse – a bottle of ketchup, some moldy cheese slices, and a bag of fragrant Chinese takeout.

"What now, boss?" 

"There has to be a clue here somewhere." Phil shut the fridge and surveyed his team. They were from Fury's recruitment department, so not people he'd ever worked with before. However, no one complained when Fury gave Phil the lead on this. "Spread out. Examine everything. Anything could be important."

The apartment wasn't that big, nothing more than a glorified studio. But Barton seemed to have accumulated stuff.

Phil had decided to stop calling their new recruit "Clint" even in his own mind. The baby-faced con artist in the mug shots hadn't yet become his Clint, and Phil was arrogant enough to believe that maybe he'd had a hand in shaping that confident man who'd swept into his life twelve years ago.

Phil stopped in front of a faded and tattered Hawkeye poster across from the futon bed. Even with the fading, the shades of purple were obscene. He ran his fingers over it, almost certain he could smell popcorn and cotton candy. This was the only thing in the entire room that spoke of Barton's unusual past. 

There was a shelving unit filled with CDs and cassette tapes, so many they were spilling on the floor. Phil didn't take the time to examine the music, although that would surely give him some insight to who Barton was. There were a few battered paperbacks, including a much worn copy of Huck Finn on the floor next to the futon.

This was a place much loved and lived in. The Barton in the pages of the file didn't seem the type. His history had been on the road again and again. Phil wondered if Clint was deliberately trying to make a home now that he had a little money.

Money that had come from pulling hits for the mob. Although the reason the Russians were out for Barton now was that Barton hadn't killed someone he'd taken money for. 

Why? Phil sat on the futon and thought about it. He remembered every bit of conversation he'd had with Clint in the past. He'd even transcribed what he could remember in his journal. Clint hadn't taken pride in killing. Had he in his past?

Out of the corner of his eye Phil noticed the corner of the poster was coming up from the wall. Something wasn't right about that. He moved closer and caught his fingernail around the edge. 

"Smith, get over here with that forensics kit." Behind the poster was a false wall, and behind that was a closet holding a bow and quiver of arrows.

Phil knew instantly that Clint hadn't left on his own. "This has just been changed to a search and rescue mission. Most likely the Russians have him. Let's get back to the van. We need intel."


	3. Still 1990

Phil's stomach roiled as the two goons tossed him into the darkened room. He managed to roll so he hit the ground with his shoulder – not easy with his bound hands. Perhaps his plan to get captured by the same Russians who had grabbed Barton had worked too well.

His nose wrinkled at the scent of the room – basement was more like it. He caught damp mold and urine, along with the crisp scent of mothballs. None of those were pleasant. One single light bulb illuminated the room, and it was just enough to see as he flipped his legs over his arms to get his bound hands in front of him.  
"You got some fancy ass moves to match your fancy pants, suit man."

The voice came from the corner of the room. Phil's heart pounded in response. It had been exactly twelve years since he'd last heard that voice. He stepped around two large crates blocking his view, and his shoe crunched broken glass. There was a man bound to a chair, and when he looked up, Phil recognized Clint underneath the bruised lips and swollen left eye. 

His mind stuttered through several difference responses. But Phil had decided in the van that the only way he could proceed was pretending he'd never met Clint. He knew that was the right decision now, once he saw how young Clint looked. Clint was a baby – not much older than Phil the first time they'd met.

"Please refrain of making reference to my ass in the future, Mr. Barton." Phil slipped his lock pick out of his jacket sleeve and had the cuffs open in under a minute.

Barton's eyes narrowed. "You know my name."

Phil perched on one of the crates to get at the sole of his shoe. They'd figured he'd be patted down for weapons, but his cover – a businessman looking for love in the wrong apartment building – would prevent them from looking any closer. "I know a lot about you. Rest assured that I am not associated with the incompetent twits who tossed us both in here."

Barton snorted. "They're waiting for the big boss to show up. He's slightly more competent, apparently."

"Well it's a good thing I got here when I did." If they were waiting for the head honcho, then odds were this room was just a quick holding pen and not under surveillance. Phil extracted his utility knife and propped the sole back into place. "Now hold still."

Barton stiffened as Phil cut the ropes binding him to the chair. As soon as the tattered ends dropped to the floor, he sprang out of his seat and was halfway across the room. "What are you some kind of secret agent man?"

"I’m here to help you, and to offer you an opportunity." The sound of a heavy tread echoed in the floorboards above them. Phil looked up and frowned. It looked like they were going to have company sooner rather than later. "Do what I say if you want to live."

He hadn't realized he'd paraphrased Clint's first words to him until Barton startled in response. Surely he didn't recognize them?

"You're misquoting Terminator? A man after my own heart." Barton winked at him.

Phil held himself still. It would be inappropriate at this point for Barton to know what those gorgeous blue-green eyes did for Phil. Best to keep playing this cold. "Shame I'm not interested in your heart, then."

He didn't miss the way Barton's eyes shut down at that. Phil kicked himself for a fool. "We'll talk later," Phil promised. He scanned the basement and found several items he found to his liking. He turned and handed Barton his knife. "Position yourself right there. Take out any stragglers."

"What?" Barton watched as Phil used materials he found around the basement to set up several booby traps – a trip wire in front of the door, a pulley and bucket, and a heavy concrete block at hand. 

He didn't have much time to spare. Voices grew louder and the stairs creaked with the weight of footsteps. Phil ducked into position.

Luckily everything went as expected. The first henchman tripped, and tumbled down the remaining stairs where he smacked his head against the crate Phil had propped there. The second leaped over him, roaring, only to find his foot stuck in a bucket filled with wet cement. He too took a fall. 

The last one must be the boss. He took his time coming down the stairs. Phil leapt from the box he was crouched behind, throwing the concrete block like a shot put. The mob boss screamed and grasped his knee.

"Move, Barton." Phil let Barton precede him up the steps and followed, locking the basement door behind him. 

"Didn't need the knife, did I?" Barton flipped it back to Phil, who caught it easily.

"Apparently not." They shared a grin, and for a moment Phil was transported back to the past where Clint was the most amazing thing he'd ever seen and looked at Phil the same way. "Come on. Let's get out of here before they break out."

They made record time up the stairs and out the back to the alleyway that separated this building from the one next to it. "This way." The van wasn't parked far, but far enough so as not to raise suspicion.

Barton didn't follow. "Look man, thanks for saving my ass back there, but this is where I say sayonara." He jumped onto the fire escape hanging from the brick façade. 

Phil couldn't help a smirk. Did Barton actually think he was going anywhere? "And to think, Mr. Barton, I thought we had a connection in there."

Barton laughed, which was what Phil wanted. The distraction lasted long enough for Phil to grab the metal cover of a trashcan and whip it into the air. It made contact with Clint's forehead and he dropped the few feet to the ground.

Phil sighed when he saw Barton was unconscious. At least he wouldn’t be running. But that meant Phil had to engage his emergency beacon and have the van come pick them up. How embarrassing. He flipped the switch on his cufflink.

He crouched next to Barton and cataloged the injuries under that floppy haired head. First stop was to medical, and then maybe Phil would get a chance to give his "Welcome to SHIELD speech." He'd been working awfully hard on it. 

They would have a long way to go, he and Clint Barton. But someday Clint would once again be the man Phil first met twelve years ago, and Phil would have a hand in shaping him. Maybe, just maybe, he'd get the chance to confess his feelings, and this stupid crush would grow into something more. There had been a hint of that in his Clint's eyes, Phil was sure of that.

The van careened around the corner and Phil straightened. Well, he'd have a very interesting story to tell Nick when they got back.


	4. Epilogue

Clint blinked eyes gummed up with sleep. The smell of super strong cleaner told him he was in a hospital, but when he took stock of the world around him, it was no ordinary hospital. He was surrounded by tech – like out of some sci fi movie. And he was alone. No way he'd score his own room.

When he tried to sit up, Clint realized he was restrained, his wrists locked to the bed rails. He fought down the panic thumping in his chest. They weren't handcuffs, so he wasn't under arrest. Probably.

He didn't think the dude who'd rescued him from the Khokhlovs had been a cop. No, Clint's savior had been something else entirely. No cop knew how to use everyday objects to kick ass like that. Well, unless the guy was a huge MacGyver fan. That wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

The point was, Clint was alive, which was more than he'd expected this morning. Things had gotten way to hairy, and he should have known better than to linger around town. But Clint was tired of running, tired of the endless circle of hide and seek his life had become. 

There was a brisk knock at the door before it swung open, revealing Clint's hero. Now that he got a good look at the guy – even if under awful florescent lighting – Clint could appreciate his subtle good looks, and the way he filled out a suit. Clint bit his lip, remembering how he was shot down so spectacularly in the basement. Guy must be straight. 

"How are you feeling, Mr. Barton?" 

Clint shrugged, and then realized he felt pretty darn good. Huh. He wasn't even fuzzy like if he were on painkillers. "I'd feel a whole lot better if I wasn't tied up." When he saw a flare of something in the other man's eyes, Clint curled his lip. "I didn't realize you were into bondage."

The man hugged a folder to his chest. Was he blushing? That was adorable. "My name is Agent Phil Coulson," he said. "I work for SHIELD. I'd like to offer you an opportunity to…"

"Yes." Whatever this guy was offering, it was a hell of a lot better than the reality Cint had woken up to that morning. He bet a fancy place like this even offered three squares a day.

"What?" Coulson seemed surprised.

"Where do I sign up?"

"You don't even know what you're signing up for."

"I've heard of SHIELD. And I figure if I can learn half of those fancy ass moves you pulled off it'd be a win-win."

"I haven't even…I had a speech. It was quite nice. It laid out all the pros and cons of coming to work for us…"

Clint grinned. "How about you save it for dinner with me, later." Okay, so maybe he hadn't given up hope. That blush was almost a promise.

"That would be inappropriate at this juncture, Mr. Barton." Coulson laid out the folder on the table. Clint didn't miss the qualifier. "But I would be happy to stay for whatever lunch Medical is offering so we can complete the paperwork and we can discuss terms of employment."

"Big words like that turn me on."

"It must be such a hardship, Mr. Barton, going through life perpetually erect. Now if I can draw your attention to the paperwork..."

Oh, this was going to be fun.

 

end


End file.
